Illusion
by Unicorn13
Summary: The war was coming to a close, and Draco was prepared for its end. However, when events took a twist, he was left in the very last place he thought he would be during the last battle– with the very last person he expected to see.


**Title:** Illusion

**Author: **Unicorn13

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Author's Note: **This is a one-shot I wrote last summer for the Draco/Hermione fic exchange on livejournal, and I thought I'd post a little something since I haven't been on here in a while. And because an award nomination at Dangerous Liaisons Awards let me know that what I'd written wasn't absolute crap after all. :-)

This was written pre-HBP, and has not been "updated" to include new canon information. Also, for anyone interested, a long-overdue update for _Dear Harry_ is indeed in the works; I tentatively plan to have it out by mid-June or so.

Many cyber-cookies and songs of praise to downinnewyork, my wonderful beta reader, and to goddessofangels for the fantastically flexible request, with which I was given more than enough room to throw in my own ideas.

**Summary:** The war was coming to a close, and Draco was prepared for its end. However, when events took a twist, he was left in the very last place he thought he would be during the last battle– with the very last person he expected to see.

* * *

Draco paced back and forth, muttering spells and curses to himself as he mentally prepared. Months of preparation, of small-scale fights and slight skirmishes, came down to one final, all-encompassing battle which would deal the fatal blow to either side, the wound that would be impossible to recover from. That night would decide whether or not everything he had sacrificed to the cause had been given up in vain. 

Failure was not an option.

And yet, even in light of this, he found his mind drifting to a simpler time, and a memory of a girl fluttered in front of him, almost within his reach. It had been before he had learned to murder, or be murdered... betray, or be betrayed.

_She tilted her face up towards his, eyes shining with tears as she clung to him. Taking hold of both his hands with her own, she shoved something into them– a crumpled piece of parchment. And then she was running, away from him, and towards the castle, towards the warmth of her alliance, leaving him with only the coldness of a pledge to the Dark Lord and a flimsy piece of paper._

_A single quote had been scribbled on the parchment, followed by its translation._

_"Faber est suae quisque fortunae." _

_Each is the maker of his own fortune. _

"Master Draco?" He whirled around, instinctively aiming his wand at the already frightened house elf. The small creature gave a yelp of surprise, and quickly backed away, stopping when she was able to brace herself against the wall.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"M-master Draco's father…" stammered the elf. Draco restrained the impulse to strangle the servant for its hesitation to speak.

"_Yes_?" he said instead, through clenched teeth. The elf's large eyes widened at the obvious note of impatience in her master's voice; impatience, which would smoothly transition into anger, which, in turn, meant violence. The wand still pointed, unwavering, at the elf's forehead.

"Master Malfoy needs to see Master Draco, sir."

Draco nodded dismissively at the timid reply and the elf disappeared with a loud _crack!_ He Apparated to his father's study; it was the only place where Lucius Malfoy would be.The older man sat in his leather revolving chair with one hand gripping an armrest and the fingers of the other just barely curled against his lips. He sat with his chair turned to the side so that he faced the wall to the right of where his son stood in the doorway. Without speaking, Draco moved to sit in one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the massive mahogany desk Lucius resided behind. He watched his father expectantly.

Uncomfortably long and silent seconds slipped past, during which neither Malfoy spoke or made any move to; each seemed to be waiting for the other to begin. Draco shifted uneasily in his seat, which was devoid of any plush pillows or Cushioning Charms.

Without looking at his son, Lucius stated calmly, as though they were discussing quidditch scores or politics, "Your mother never liked those chairs. She only let me keep them because they matched the rest of the décor."

A breath escaped Lucius's lips, a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a quiet laugh.

Frown lines appeared in-between Draco's eyebrows at his father's words. It was the first time the elder Malfoy had spoken of his wife in months.

Lucius stood and casually walked– practically strolled– over to his wine cabinet, muttering the password to unlock the doors before pulling out a bottle of firewhiskey and two shot glasses.

He tossed one glass to Draco, who awkwardly caught it in one hand; he kept the other and soon busied himself with pouring a shot. Tilting the glass to his lips, he emptied it in one gulp, throwing his head back to force the alcohol down faster.

Swallowing and smacking his lips lightly, he poured himself another shot before levitating the entire bottle to Draco. His son gripped the container of alcohol in his hand, eyes narrowed suspiciously. His father had said once that firewhiskey was the beggar and mudblood-lover's drink of choice... why would he keep a bottle of the cheap stuff in his precious wine cabinet, chock-full of expensive and exotic tastes?

He said nothing, but poured himself a shot as his father sent a sharp look in his direction, indicating for him to do so. Draco downed it, feeling the liquid blaze a fiery trail down his throat.

Satisfied, Lucius reached out his hand for the firewiskey again. "Tell me, Draco, do you have any regrets?"

Draco nearly dropped the bottle as he handed it to his father.

"W–_what_?" he sputtered. He wondered as to how much alcohol the elder Malfoy had consumed before summoning him.

Without skipping a beat, Lucius said neutrally, "Your mother asked me that once. She wanted to know if everything I had worked towards, all I had sacrificed for the cause, was worth the trouble."

Suddenly Draco's throat had gone dry, whether from the whiskey or his father's words, he couldn't tell.

"What did you say to her?" he asked hoarsely. Lucius shrugged and filled up both shot glasses to the brim.

"She left the room before I could say anything. Told me later that it was just the principle of asking me."

He downed his shot, then stood there with the glass clutched tightly in his hand.

"You know, everyone told her when she married me that she was making the best decision of her life. Because I had the proper lineage, wealth, power, position."

Draco stared at his father, certain that the words issuing from Lucius's mouth could not possibly be flowing from his decision to speak, his own free will. He was either unspeakably drunk or finally insane. Or both. And yet the clipped tones of his voice were as crisp and confident as ever, seemingly sharpened with each draining of his minuscule glass. Perhaps Draco was more drunk than the two– no, three? Four. Four shots of firewhiskey led him to believe.

"Live with no regrets or don't live at all, she told me."

An emotion besides passivity finally crept into his tone, and Lucius Malfoy spoke as violently as if the words in his mouth were bile.

"Even in the end, if she had any regrets, she never told me. Her funeral was the largest, the grandest... it should have been a fine way to go," he spat, turning to fill his glass again before draining its contents with an emphatic swig.

A hazy feeling began to flood Draco's senses as he absent-mindedly lifted his shot glass to his lips. When had he refilled it? No, wait. He hadn't. His father had. Or had his father charmed the bottle to serve by itself?

"Live with no regrets or don't live at all..." Lucius repeated under his breath. The words were barely spoken above a murmur, but they pounded like the roar of a crowd in Draco's throbbing head.

Why was the room suddenly growing dimmer?

"Live..."

He felt himself slipping into a strange world in his subconscious, where the only colour was black. Darkness reigned supreme. And as Draco fell into the unknown, his father's voice whispered in his ear, as though he was right next to him, hurtling, as he was, towards some yet to be determined destination, instead of left behind in the quickly disappearing pinprick of light in the distance.

"... or don't..."

* * *

Cold. Stone. Solidity. Dark. 

Shifting his aching body slightly, Draco felt the hard, damp floor underneath himself with his hands as he kept his eyes clamped shut. Varying shades of red danced on the insides of his eyelids, alerting him to the fact that, wherever he was, it was not completely dark.

He opened his eyes and instinctively raised his hands to shield his face. Once his eyes had adjusted to the lighting, he saw a torch directly above his head, held in place by a bracket in the wall. He attempted to sit up, then fell back again with a dull thud when his vision went completely black and his head began throbbing again.

_What happened?_

Searching the memories in his groggy, disoriented mind, Draco could retrieve only brief flashes of images.

A bottle. Of what? It was... a drink of some kind. A brand of wine? No– something cheaper. Something that burned. Firewhiskey. Shot glasses. His father. Words. Words about his mother. Unfamiliar words.

A deathlike silence surrounded him, from which he slowly deducted that the house was most likely empty, from top to bottom. But... where would they all be?

The war. The final battle. They, as he was expected to do, were all fulfilling their duties to the Dark Lord.

It was enough to make him shoot up to a sitting position.

He winced as the pressure in his head abruptly rose to a point where he thought it would be enough to make him explode, and all he saw was darkness. And then, just as quickly as the pressure had come, it had dissipated, clearing his vision as it went.

His mouth felt completely dry, his tongue shrivelled and withdrawn. Every part of his body ached, while only a faint, lingering sense of dizziness remained in his head. Glancing about him, he ran his fingers through his bright hair in bewilderment as he came upon a startling realisation.

Draco Malfoy was in one of the deepest, darkest dungeons of Malfoy Manor.

But how? And _why_?

* * *

Draco could distinguish that he was not in a cell, but had been lying haphazardly across the cobblestone pathway in-between the two long rows of cells. Rising to his feet and brushing off his clothing, he carefully lifted the solitary torch from its bracket and felt in the pocket of his robes for his wand. Someone had taken it. 

Cursing softly, he raised the torch above his head to shed more light on the path. In one direction, the cells continued to stretch into the darkness, the iron bars of the nearest cubicles shining with beaded drops of dew; in the other, the bottom step of a staircase invited him forward. The few times he had visited the dungeons provided him with the knowledge that those were the set of stairs that would lead him back up to the main floor of the manor.

Hastening forward, he kept the torch before him, to ward off the possibility of any unpleasant surprises that might be lurking in the shadows, waiting for his approach. As he ascended the staircase, his feet finally seemed to recognise the way, carrying him towards everything he was most familiar with.

He was panting heavily by the time he reached the top of the seemingly never-ending set of steps, and the torch almost slipped from his sweaty grip as he moved it from his right hand to his left. His fingertips met with the cool metal of the doorhandle, and he tightened his hold before giving the handle a wrench.

It wouldn't budge.

Feeling a nasty sinking feeling in his heart, he desperately rattled the handle, in feverish hopes of jarring it hard enough to force it open. No good.

Defeated, he gave the door a force parting kick, pausing a moment before flinging himself down the stairs again, racing towards the bottom, exerting more energy than he had in climbing the steps. The muscles in his legs burned as he finally reached the cobblestone pathway. He stopped to catch his breath, forcing air down his constricted windpipe.

There was no way out.

Roughly thrusting the torch in front of him, he made his way down the pathway with long, purposeful strides. The harsh, grating sound of his breathing and the slaps of his footsteps against the stone echoed through the empty cells before him. A vague thought surfaced in his mind, remembering more words.

Most of the dungeon cells had been emptied earlier; all, in fact, except for one. He hadn't cared enough at the time to listen to who occupied the cubicle, or why the occupant had been left alone.

A surprised wheeze erupted somewhere inside a cell to his left as he briskly walked past, intent on reaching the end of the passageway, on finding a means of escape. He stopped. Retracing his former steps, he returned to the cell.

Two eyes glittered in the flickering light from the torch, and Draco held the light further above and in front of him to illumine the chamber.

It was a standard dungeon cell, with a medium-sized pallet made from straw and a few other bare essentials. He assumed, since the cell lacked a hole or any particularly rancid smells, that the prisoners were taken outside to the woods behind the manor for other... needs. The person inside had risen to a standing position against the wall, and stood there, staring at him with wide eyes. It took a few moments for Draco to recognize the pale face.

Ron Weasley looked like hell.

* * *

"_Weasel_?" Draco said incredulously. 

Weasley blinked a few times, his chest rising and falling with each haggard breath he drew in through his mouth, but said nothing.

"Wha– how long have you been here?"

Again, there was no response.

Draco was taken aback at how much his balance had been successfully thrown off again by his discovery; not only had he been left to rot in the dungeon instead of out on the battlefield, but Harry Potter's _own best friend_, one of the Golden Trio, had been as well. By Weasley's sickly and wasted appearance, however, Draco reasoned that his former classmate had been in the cell for quite a while already.

"They left you here to die, too," he managed to sneer through the bars.

The corner of Weasley's mouth twitched as he flexed his hands slightly, signs that he, even in his broken state, recognised the familiar tone of condescension that Draco reserved for the select few he loved to torture.

"How long have you been here?" Draco repeated, instilling a false sense of confidence in himself by converting his energy for anger into mocking the redhead. "A month? Two?"

"A year," Weasley replied tonelessly. Draco stumbled back a step in vague surprise. Weasley's voice was scratchy and gruff from disuse.

"_A year_?" The thought of Ronald Weasley wasting away in the prison underneath his home for so long without his knowledge was more than a trifle disturbing.

"No wonder you look terrible," Draco sniffed.

Weasley had fallen back to silently gaping at him. Draco turned away, but not before flashing a smirk at his enemy.

There was nothing to be gained by conversing with the prisoner; he needed to find an exit, and quickly. If he was lucky, he would still be able to enter the fight when it was only halfway through. His mind began putting his lessons through their paces, every word imprinted into his memory.

His loyalty to his side must never be questioned; consistency was the key. Everyone would speak of him as the one who never faltered– in reverence, of course, for they could not lose this time. Not with their obvious advantages, not with–

"She spoke of you often."

Five words. Five simple, ordinary words that made Draco feel as though he had been punched in the gut. One sentence that forced him to stop and backtrack again to that one cell.

"What?" he demanded sharply of the prisoner, who still stood, but with his face downcast.

"She spoke of you often," stated Weasley simply, barely raising his voice above a whisper.

"Who?" He already knew what the answer would be.

Apparently,_ Weasley_ knew that _he_ knew; there was no reply to his question.

Draco raised his eyebrows, beginning to feel impatient, but bearing in mind that there was no way for him to force an answer out of the prisoner. "And what did she have to say about me?"

"You disappointed her." More words meant to tug at his conscience. Exactly how ridiculously successful they were bothered him more than he liked to disclose.

"I told her from day one that I would never be one of you," Draco snarled, gripping a bar on the door of the cell. His voice raised in volume a few notches as he spoke. "I told her that she was wasting her time, if she thought that she could reform me into a saint, like you and Potter. Chivalry and other such foolish self-sacrificing notions are things that I never learned, never will learn."

Weasley lifted his bright blue eyes to meet his steely grey ones. "She said that she tried her best."

Draco paused for a moment, unable to form a caustic remark to this.

"Hermione only stopped trying because you left."

"So you think that she would have changed me, if I had stayed? Is that really what you think?" he challenged.

Weasley's bony shoulder barely lifted in a half-shrug.

"Let me tell you something, _Weasel_. If she really cared," began Draco through clenched teeth, not caring how his voice shook slightly as he spoke, "then she would have come with me. I gave her the option to follow me, and she chose her side. I chose mine. She could have spared the lives of everyone she loved the most by being with me, and instead she chose what she believe to be the _noble_ way, the fools' path."

An eerie shadow of a smile lurked on Weasley's lips.

"Better a fools' path than a sly man's trap."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco snapped. Weasley sank to a sitting position with his back still against the wall, pulling his knees up tightly to his chest.

Draco was more than a trifle unnerved by the redhead's uncharacteristic behaviour, and found himself peering more closely at the youngest Weasley boy, as though doing so would provide some sort of explanation. Making a disgusted noise, Draco backed away from the cell again and started walking again.

He only increased his pace when Weasley called after him, "You're going the wrong way."

An image briefly flitted before Draco's eyes, and he gave a strangled yell.

It appeared again further down the pathway, towards the direction of the dungeon entrance, beckoning for him to step forward. It couldn't possibly be... since when did Lucius Malfoy take on a see-through appearance? And, besides, wasn't he supposed to be at the battle as well? Of course he was. Draco was sure that he wouldn't be locked underground if it were otherwise. Or would he?

When the apparition (hallucination? Mirage?) had disappeared into the dark, Draco surprised himself by daring to follow.

* * *

A lone figure warily trudged down a long, wide pathway that led from a set of metal gates tall and strong enough to keep out all of humanity, it seemed. Rain fell from the sky in diagonal sheets, threatening to break the water-repelling charms she had cast on her clothes. 

A group comprised of several wizards and witches stood guard at the gates, all holding wands at the ready. She knew that more were scattered in various positions so that they surrounded the house, and the knowledge gave her a bit more courage. They had, however reluctantly, agreed to allow her to find their comrade alone. An enormous mansion made from grey stone loomed before them all at the end of the pathway.

_So this is Malfoy Manor_, Hermione thought to herself, shivering. It was beyond her how Ron could possibly have survived an entire year _underneath_ the house, let alone _in_ it. But, if the sources that reported back to the Aurors were to be believed, he had managed it. She smiled a bit in spite of herself, remembering her friend's stubbornness and strong-willed spirit.

_Please be alive._

She reached into the pocket of her robes and felt for her wand, gathering reassurance from the feel of the smooth wood underneath her fingers, and also from her small Auror pin, nestled deep within the fabric. Sloshing her way through the ankle-deep water, she assumed a brisk walk at first, before slowing her steps for the sake of caution. Releasing a breath that wasn't quite a sigh, she studied the walkway and the movement of her feet. There was no telling what awaited her inside the mansion.

Upon reaching the front door, Hermione was unsure of whether or not she should knock, staring at the sinister-looking serpent door-knocker that faced her. She lifted her hand to grasp the handle of the knocker, then stopped short of touching it as a thin trail of blood trickled down the back of her hand, and the piercing needles of the rain quickly washed it away.

Wincing, she withdrew her hand. They had left the battle without a moment to stop and heal their wounds. She had clumsily bandaged her wrist with a spare scrap of cloth she had managed to salvage, but the magic from the spell that had hit her kept the gash open. Luckily, she was certain of fewer dangerous enchantments that she would have to battle her way through, as the caster of them was now dead.

She shivered again. The sight Lucius Malfoy's rigid body, splayed on the blood-stained field as she and the other victors of the fight counted their dead and rounded up prisoners, was not a pleasant one. It was only because he was now dead, and Harry was most definitely safe that they could attempt a rescue. It was curious that she had not seen Draco, dead or alive at the battle...

Chancing a glance back at the gates, she noted a figure with bubblegum-pink hair waving wildly, sparks shooting from her wand. Hermione withdrew her own wand and shot a few sparks of her own to signify that she understood before turning back to the door.

"_Alohomora_," she muttered, her voice lost in the wind. A faint light emitted from her wand towards the keyhole, and, a moment later, the door opened on its own. She pushed it open further and entered Malfoy Manor. The wind rushed before her, blowing rain and various debris from trees inside the house. With some difficulty, she closed the door.

And then she was left standing alone in the dark of the foyer. Closing her eyes, she summoned an image of the map she had forced herself to memorize.

"_Lumos_," she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.

A step forward, and another, and another, one more, and then stop. A turn left, and then fifteen more steps.

She envisioned memories of the manor, which had been siphoned into a Pensieve that she had been provided with during training sessions. She knew when she would pass the dining room, with its long, regal table resting on an expensive Oriental rug, every place flawlessly set, even with no meal in. She knew where to step, where not to step. As long as nothing had been moved since the last time Professor Snape had visited. It came as no surprise when she finally opened her eyes and found herself standing in front of the door leading down to the dungeons.

Her eyes moved to the left of the doorframe and found the ring of keys hanging on its peg. She removed it, her fingers trembling slightly as she sought out the one she needed. She found it easily, a small rusty key with jagged teeth on both sides.

Inserting it into the lock, she paused for a moment as a faint sound reached her ears. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she leaned her sweaty forehead against the cold metal door.

She could have sworn that she had heard Draco.

* * *

Breathing hard, she gave herself a small shake, pushing thoughts of how she had not seen him on the battlefield to the back of her mind. 

Hermione slipped the ring of keys into the pocket of her robes before transfiguring the nearest object into a doorstop. Upon closer examination, she could see that there was no keyhole from the inside of the door, and she didn't fancy being trapped inside the Malfoys' dungeons.

The door silently swung inwards as she gave it a gentle push and strategically placed the doorstop. Biting the corner of her bottom lip, she began descending the long staircase, her wand lit and held in front of her. Everything beyond the light stretched forward into darkness, and Hermione felt a strange, fluttering sensation in her stomach as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

The first few rows of cells were empty, and had evidently been so for quite a while. She walked on, wrinkling her nose at the damp, earthy smell that pervaded the dungeons. At least everything was just as she had expected it to be, from her training.

It wasn't until she had reached what she estimated to be halfway through the two far-reaching lines of empty cells that she began to worry. Recalling the memory from the pensieve, she should have found Ron by now. Should have. Anything that could possibly have happened to him would have been reported back to their side by now– wouldn't it?

She unconsciously doubled her pace, feeling the vestiges of panic beginning to seize her. So many weeks of training, of agonising over her friend's condition... was it for nothing after all? Had she been sent on a rescue mission to save a dead man?

Choking back a sob of despair at the thought, she forced herself to continue moving forward, refusing to give up until she had reached to the wall where the cells stopped in a dead end. She would concentrate on getting there, and double, triple-checking each individual cell, if she had to. Because she _wouldn't_ give up that easily, not on one of her best friends, not–

"Hello?"

She froze. It most certainly was not Ron's voice. Her grip tightened on her wand as she struggled to decide whether or not to dim it. After all, the damage had already been done; surely the other person would have seen the soft glow of the spell. However, the light the other person wielded was only a tiny dot in her vision, meaning that there may still be time for her to escape.

How could she not have noticed the small pinprick of light in the distance? She had been concentrating so hard on searching the cells, completely absorbed in her own thoughts, and was thus unprepared for the possibility of someone left behind to guard the lone prisoner, and mentally berated herself for not doing so. Ron had been their most important captive, the only one they could use as bait for Harry.

Putting out her light would do no good. Even if she did manage to escape, she would not have accomplished her task, and Ron would still be trapped. That is, if he was–

"Who's there?" The light from the other end steadily approached her, and she heard the sound of tentative footsteps.

She lowered her wand, not bothering to dim its light. If her heart hadn't leapt into her throat at that moment, she would have been tempted to speak to him. As it was, she stood her ground, waiting for him. Without realising it, her eyes fluttered shut as she listened to Draco steadily approach her.

A thousand moments flashed before her eyes, from before and during the war. A challenge. Her acceptance. The taste of him, the smell of him as he crushed her against him and held her possessively.

_Each is the maker of his own fortune._

Understanding dawned upon her, and she choked back yet another sob.

Lucius Malfoy had saved his son by locking him down here, in the Malfoy Manor dungeons.

She knew she wouldn't have the heart to tell Draco that his father had died on the battlefield. Perhaps she wouldn't have to. Her presence alone in his house would most likely be enough to inform him.

Her mind came to a screeching halt. _Ron._ She needed to find him, to see if he was still alive. He was whom she had come for, not Draco.

Time itself seemed to halt as Draco finally came to a stop in front of her, and an expression of recognition slowly eased its way onto his face. A second layer of emotion, a darker one, smothered any joy that he may have experienced initially at seeing her. She could sense the thoughts flying through his mind at lightning speed.

How could there possibly be redemption for him, when he had murdered so many, seemingly of his own free will?

Hermione shifted her weight from one foot to the other nervously, staring back as his grey eyes bore into her. She remembered the words she had written to him, and suddenly what she had to do couldn't possibly be clearer.

She moved aside. His eyes widened with realisation a few moments after she had done so.

If he wished, he could simply brush past her and escape, perhaps to build a new life and assume a different identity elsewhere. Or, he could stay exactly where he was, and suffer the consequences. He knew that she would not rest until she had found some way for him to escape execution, and even imprisonment, but he had also chosen which alliance to pledge his loyalty to, and it had become the losing side. Admitting to this mistake would mean swallowing a good deal of pride.

She bit the corner of her lip as he blinked several times before advancing a few steps towards her. Lowering her head, she found herself unable to watch him to see whether or not he would simply walk past and be on his way.

She jumped when his hand closed around her wrist. It lingered there, cool on her feverishly warm skin.

And then he was pulling her in the opposite direction, away from the dungeon entrance.

He was leading her towards Ron.

* * *

**Original request:**

**Name/Pen Name:** Goddess of Angels

**LJ Username:** goddessofangels

**you're willing to write:** PG-13 to R

**Rating(s) of the fic you want: **R

**One tone/mood you want your gift to include:** Dark

**One element/theme/item you want your gift to include:** Lucius Malfoy

**One common cliche you don't your gift to include: **Draco switching to the light side

* * *

Reviews, constructive criticism, cyber-cookies, etc. are certainly more than welcome.  



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